


Define dancing

by TerresDeBrume



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Astronauts, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, IN SPACE!, M/M, Trans Male Character, trans napoleon solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: It takes a couple of very lucky--though not for the people they happen to--events that border on miraculous, but Napoleon and Ilya do manage to get sent to the I.S.S. in the end, with one question in mind: how much effort is it really going to take to stop themselves from punching one another in the face--again?The answer, as it turns out, runs along the lines of 'not that much'.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Define dancing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frosted_astronaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frosted_astronaut/gifts).



> Dear frosted_astronaut,
> 
> I'm afraid this fic might be a little light on the "from enemies" bit, but hopefully I managed to make up for it with the "to lovers" bits. I hope you have a very merry end of the year, and that whatever seasonal holiday you celebrate is a merry one :)

The truth is, contrary to what most people think, Napoleon is acutely, painfully aware of what he almost lost this morning—it wouldn’t take so much effort keeping his spine relaxed if he didn’t. The only reason NASA hasn’t taken him off the next shuttle roster is that Alex Jones, the reserve guy supposed to replace Napoleon in case of incident, broke his leg yesterday and none of the other potential candidates would be able to make it to Florida in the nineteen hours remaining before launch. If this whole thing with Kuryakin had happened just a few hours earlier, no amount of groveling or promises of better behavior—both of which he’s made plenty of in the past three hours—would have allowed Napoleon to retain his seat to the I.S.S.

  
  


“No one is irreplaceable,” Mr. Waverly even said before he allowed Napoleon to leave. “If hear one word about you creating problem, you’re coming back down with the soyouz and dealing with the customs problems on your own, understood.”

  
  


Napoleon groveled some more after then, then headed to the nearest coffee shop and, having grabbed a box of expensive liquored chocolates on his way back, headed directly for Gabriela Teller’s current lodgings, fully prepared to go on both knees if that’s what it takes to soothe her. He is, after all, going to live in close quarters with her for six months: it would be stupid to make an enemy of her when their would-be Red Peril partner already can’t stand him.

Though of course, the process would be much easier if Napoleon didn’t have to contend with finding Ilya Kuryakin down on his knees in Teller’s kitchenette. Idiot probably sunk to the floor the first chance he got instead of making his puppy eyes do the work for him. Amateur.

  
  


Teller doesn’t seem to mind the awkward moment—probably thrives on it, mischievous as she is—though, because as soon as she realizes Napoleon is here she turns to him, raises an eyebrow, and says:

  
  


“Who would have thought. Dumb minds think alike too.”

  
  


She spoke Russian which, if Napoleon were any less practiced at keeping his face together, would probably make him wince. Sure, he’s not allowed to speak English and Kuryakin is bared from Russian for as long as the lot of them work together, but Teller is German: she’ll never be using her mother tongue on the I.S.S….and the past forty-eight hours were more than enough time for Napoleon to notice her choice of language is more than a little influenced by whoever she’s most upset with at any given time.

  
  


“I figured replacing your coffee was the least I could do,” Napoleon says in Russian, suppressing a grimace when Kuryakin nods at the declaration. “I also brought you chocolate.”

“You think that’s going to be enough to make the next six months bearable?” Teller asks—without, Napoleon notes, declining the box when it is offered to her.

“Of course not,” he says, trying for a sweet smile and dialing it down a notch when Teller’s expression turns unimpressed. “I’m just hoping it could be a start: a chance to show you I can work with other when I put my mind to it.”

“My ruined sweater and his bruised jaw say otherwise,” Teller points out with a closed fist on her hip. “Speaking of which, don’t you think he’s the one you should be apologizing to?”

“Innocent bystander gets priority,” Napoleon says, sure to keep his tone matter-of-fact no matter how despondent he wants to be.

  
  


It takes two people to fight, after all, and while Napoleon is willing to admit—under duress—that he can be...complicated to handle...he’s never been a bully. Kuryakin has his share of the blame, no matter how skeptical Teller gets at the thought.

  
  


“I take it your hearing went well?” Napoleon asks Kuryakin rather than letting the debate take root.

  
  


His miracle of the day has already come and gone, after all: no need to tempt fate.

  
  


“If by ‘went well’ you mean Petrovitch coming down with dengue,” Kuryakin answers, accent heavy in his English.

  
  


Putting some effort into this too, then.

  
  


“The diagnosis came at last minute, or I would have been sacked.”

“Hurrah! Christmas miracles all around,” Teller exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air, still in Russian. “Now if you two dumb heads could go sort this out somewhere else and leave me in peace, I’d get mine!”

  
  


Napoleon doesn’t roll his eyes, mostly because it’s unseemly but also because he is, in fact, aware that it would be counterproductive. Kuryakin, Teller’s favorite by virtue of also being from Europe, doesn’t have that kind of reservation, and Napoleon has to take a deep breath to let that one pass without acknowledgment.

He follows Kuryakin outside without a word and, since the Russian has evidently decided to be his usual silent, brutish, mulish self, keeps his mouth shut too. No matter how stupid they must look, striding through the corridors of their hotel at high speed without addressing or looking at each other for a solid five minutes. Fortunately, they reach the 24/7 buffet after that and, though they’re still not speaking, at least whoever cares to watch can testify no one is throwing fists this time. Always a plus.

They make their slow way through the buffet, Kuryakin going for the salt section while Napoleon all but demolishes the fruits and desserts, until they are forced to meet again and pick a table together in a discreet corner of the room...and then they find themselves at another awkward crossroad because while Napoleon is being polite and giving Kuryakin the floor, the Russian giant seems determined to keep his mouth shut.

  
  


“I take it you’re not going to apologize then?” Napoleon asks when the silence goes on for too long.

  
  


At least he gets the unexpected pleasure of watching Kuryakin choke on his own spit. It’s a meager consolation, but given that Napoleon’s personal policies won’t allow him to let that be known, he’ll take what he can get.

  
  


“Are you?” Kuryakin finally chokes out, forgetting himself enough to switch back to Russian.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Napoleon says with more nonchalance in his shrug than in his heart, “for the sake of the mission.”

  
  


Kuryakin’s face grows wide with surprise, then draws tight on itself, his shoulders tensing with the gesture. Napoleon refuses to change his own body language for it, but he’d be lying if he said that was an easy thing to do.

  
  


“Of course,” Kuryakin says, voice low and R’s rolling in his mouth, “I should have figured you couldn’t care about other people’s feelings. That would require you to have some.”

  
  


This time, Napoleon does let his smile fall—not too far, he’s trained himself too well for that, but there’s no point in trying to appear friendly when the other party is clearly still feeling hostile.

  
  


“Feelings are inconvenient,” he says, carefully neutral through the sudden knot in his throat. “They can land you in all sorts of trouble—as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  
  


Kuryakin’s fist twitches when Napoleon nods at his bruised knuckles, but he doesn’t go farther than that. A bru t e Kuryakin may be, but he’s not a complete idiot, unfortunately. Still, even a small slip is enough to prove Napoleon’s point, and he’s not shy about letting his satisfaction show on his face as he says:

  
  


“Don’t you worry, Kuryakin. I’ll act professional if you will.”

  
  


He’s pretty sure he hears a fist connect with the wall after he rises from his seat and takes his tray to another table, but that doesn’t make him smile. Let’s blame that on his lack of feelings.

*

“So how are things up there?” Mr. Waverly asks when Gaby is done giving her report. “Is everyone still in one piece?”

  
  


It’s been a day and a half since they left Earth, and they won’t actually reach the I.S.S. for another sixteen hours, but given the circumstances of their departure Napoleon supposes he can’t blame the ground teams for checking in.

  
  


“I got a paper cut this morning,” he says into his headset, “but aside from that everything’s fine. I’d ask Kuryakin to confirm but I’m afraid he’ll fake being dead just to get me in trouble.”

  
  


From the corner of his eyes, Napoleon catches Kuryakin bite his lips—against a few unflattering words, no doubt—but nothing more happens: they have both been scrupulously sticking to their promises of of professionalism, and so far there has been no incident to report. Now they just have to endure the next six months, and try not to give themselves stress ulcers in the meantime. Unfortunately for them, though, the other members of their transport don’t share the same restrictions, which means it’s hardly a surprise when Teller says:

  
  


“Solo and Kuryakin are both behaving. Solo might want to cut down on the chatter if he wants to avoid bodily harm, though.”

“From you, Miss Teller?” Napoleon jokes. “I am—”

“Trust me,” Vittoria Vinciguerra interrupts from her station, “she won’t be fast enough to reach you before I do.”

  
  


Somewhere at the edge of his vision, Napoleon is fairly sure Kuryakin’s lips have pulled into a grimace.

  
  


“I think Teller could surprise you,” he tells Vinciguerra. “She’s awfully quick.”

“And she fights dirty,” Kuryakin adds, much to Napoleon’s surprise. “She could take you.”

  
  


Vinciguerra scoffs, which makes Napoleon wish he could excuse himself from the vehicle altogether, bu t  he does manage to stay silent. Behind him, Teller announces the beginning of their next maneuver, and Napoleon can’t help but throw a relieved glance in Kuryakin’s direction.

The man doesn’t answer in kind so much as he blinks like an owl caught in a flash photograph, but there’s still a sense of shared suffering under the perplexity and, at this point, Napoleon will take anything he can get.

  
  


  
  


They manage, somehow, to reach the I.S.S. before any blood is shed, which Napoleon is inclined to consider his second miracle of the week. It’s not that Vinciguerra can’t do her job, it’s that Napoleon has this thing where he can’t stand hateful bigots, meaning that most of what Vinciguerra says that isn’t strictly work related makes him want to strangle someone.

Possibly her.

Preferably her.

All in all, he doesn’t think it should be a big surprise that, having finished the necessary checkups with the departing team and transferred all that needed transferring from the Station to the shuttle and vice-versa, Napoleon only offer the most perfunctory of goodbyes and sighs:

  
  


“Well, that’s a relief.”

  
  


Gaby—who, to her credit, shouldered most of the effort of trying to keep Vinciguerra away from...well, any social topic, basically, during their flight up there—hums her approval at the same time as Kuryakin does, and Napoleon allows his shoulders to relax. Good. he’d have hated being trapped with people who didn’t think blatant white supremacy was a turn off.

  
  


“I didn’t realize you guys disliked her that much, though,” Gaby remarks. “I was _hoping_ but—”

“Is hard for bisexual man to like homophobes,” Kuryakin says from where he’s unstrapping himself from the walls. “Especially when it is not their only flaws.”

“Like rotten opinions on reproductive rights,” Napoleon agrees without thinking—he manages to keep himself from wincing afterwards, but only just.

“That’s a weird example to pick,” Gaby remarks with a light frown.

“You don’t think men can care about that?”

“Oh they can,” Gaby replies with a shrug and a pointed nod in Napoleon’s direction, “I’ve just never met one who cited it as a reason to dislike someone.”

  
  


Napoleon has plenty of other reasons to disli ke Vinciguerra, ranging from downright shallow to things he considers minimal bars to clear in order to be a semi-decent person, but before he can decide if he want s to go over the whole list for Gaby’s benefit, Kuryakin says:

  
  


“What do you know. The Cowboy has hidden depth.”

  
  


Napoleon watches Gaby snort with laughter, clearly the product of a well-established inside joke, and doesn’t let himself dwell on the heavy feeling trying to settle over his chest, excusing himself from the module instead. Let the Europeans band together if they want, it’s not like it matters—and if his leaving makes Kuryakin confused enough to actually produce an inquisitive noise, well. That’s hardly Napoleon’s problem.

*

“Gaby wants to know if you want to have dinner with us. For celebration.”

  
  


Napoleon, only just floating out of the exercisi ng equipment, groans. Wanting to celebrate their arrival on the I.S.S. sounds nice on paper, but Kuryakin’s current outfit is a decent approximation of evening wear, which means Napoleon will be expected to match it, which means showering. Considering the whole process around feels more like strapping himself into a sleeping bag with a river in it than anything else, this is not a requirement Napoleon is eager to meet.

The reluctance must show on his face, because Kuryakin’s expression morphs from neutral politeness to something almost tentative. Then he takes a breath in—Napoleon uses the pause to catch a few floating drops of sweat with his towel and definitely not grinning like a little child—and says:

  
  


“Maybe you could tell her.”

  
  


Napoleon’s entire body tightens and, for a fleeting second, the foolish hope that Kuryakin is talking about something entirely different floats in Napoleon’s mind. He is not, however, delusional: nothing happened between this morning’s awkward conversation and now that could create confusion and besides...well. Kuryakin is a piece of work, but he’s not an idiot. Still, sometimes blithe denial makes for an excellent signal to drop a topic.

  
  


“Tell her what?”

“I know what AndroGel is for, Cowboy,” Kuryakin replies with a roll of his eyes. “I do not say you have to tell Gaby. I say—I am saying I think she would not have problem if you did.”

  
  


There is a brief pause, during which Napoleon isn’t sure what his face does exactly—he’s had this conversation before, but it’s never gone quite that well—and Kuryakin looks at him like there’s some kind of secret hidden behind his eyes. Then...Napoleon isn’t sure what happens exactly. Maybe Kuryakin finds whatever he was looking for, maybe he gives up on the search. Either way, he tilts his head to the side and asks:

  
  


“Would you like me to excuse you?”

“Nah,” Napoleon says, surprised by the sudden warmth in his chest, “let me just clean up, I’ll be there.”

  
  


Oh. What do you know. Turns out Ilya  _can_ smile after all.

*

“Happy first month in space, Tovarish!”

  
  


Napoleon imitates the sound of glasses clinking together, and smiles when Ilya rolls his eyes. Gaby, floating upside down by their side, groans in mock-pain.

  
  


“Communism jokes? Really? I’m sure he’s never heard that before.”

“I’ll take Tovarish over ‘Red Peril’,” Ilya mutters around his straw. “Some of your american colleagues like that one a little too much.”

  
  


This time, it’s Napoleon’s turn to snort and spin in the air.

  
  


“I feel like the accusations hanging over the current POTUS would have made it sound sort of hollow, anyway.”

“If you’re about to start talking politics,” Gaby warn in a sterns tone, “I will kick both of your asses, so be warned.”

“You are ridiculous,” Ilya says at the same time. “No sense of respect for anything.” Ilya pauses, and then: “Not that I have much respect for that orange—ow!”

“Don’t ‘ow’ me,” Gaby chastises with another slap against Ilya’s chest, “I warned you.”

“Miss Teller, you have no appreciation for humor,” Napoleon tells her in mock disappointment. “Especially when it was a quality previously undiscovered in our esteemed colleague.”

  
  


A month ago, a remark like that would definitely have started a fight, and Napoleon would most likely have been frustrated enough to welcome it. Fortunately, things have changed a lot since then, and the only thing Ilya does is to send Napoleon float toward the other side of the module while Gaby calls them children. It’s not exactly an unfair assessment, but Napoleon still feels like the fact that she participates in the tickle fight that occurs later makes her the pot calling the kettle black.

All in all though, the rest of the afternoon turns out to be one of the mos pleasant they’ve had in the station so far. They drink, they eat a couple of special treats. They laugh, and rejoice at how much better their collaboration has gotten in the past four weeks.

  
  


“I’m glad all this stupid animosity is behind us now,” Gaby even says later in the evening. “What was that even about anyway?”

“Boys being boys,” Ilya replies with an unconcerned shrug.

  
  


Gaby gives a noncommital hum and Napoleon, eyes caught on the sudden dip in Ilya’s smile, doesn’t say anything at all.

  
  


It takes him two days after that to corner Ilya in an empty module, catching him between two measurement of the Sun’s radiations—Napoleon’s specialty is more in bilogy, so he’s not entirely clear on Ilya’s actual studies here. All he knows is that they take up a lot of time, and that the way Ilya’s face looks when he’s completely focused on his work makes it hard for Napoleon to look away.

There’s only so long you postpone a conversation before it starts feeling like cowardice, though, and bravery may not be Napoleon’s most abundant quality—that prize goes to self-control—but he does like to think he has some of it in stores, for when it matters. Which is why, when Ilya sighs the sigh of a mind pulling back into the world and blinks at him in surprise, Napoleon smiles at him, but doesn’t go about his own business the way he usually would.

  
  


“Is something matter?” Ilya asks, setting his instruments back in their proper place.

“Sort of,” Napoleon responds, glad that he knows how to make himself much less nervous than he really is. “Nothing recent, though.”

  
  


Ilya, finished with the cleaning up, abandons his work station entirely and floats a little closer to Napoleon with concern in his eyes. They are very blue eyes—funny Napoleon hasn’t noticed until now—and they darken with something not unlike concern when Napoleon takes a little too long to explain himself.

  
  


“I wanted to apologize,” he manages at last, voice nicely even, shoulders as relaxed as is appropriate, “for what I said about your mother that day. It was cruel and unprofessional of me. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Ilya says.

  
  


He blinks for a bit, clearly taken aback by the conversation, but recovers quickly enough. Napoleon watches him run a hand through his hair, look to the side for just a second and then, with a light blush, says: “I never expected you to apologize, you know.”

  
  


He does not say it in the tone of someone who had already forgiven, but with that of a man who thinks he knows better than to expect something he’ll never be offered.”

  
  


“Well,” Ilya manages when Napoleon failsto help hime out of the awkward spot he fell into, “is long passed now...but thank you, all the same.”

“Why, be careful Tovarish,” Napoleon manages in slightly-strangled Russian, “you almost sound like you’re going soft on me now.”

  
  


It’s not that Ilya was completely wrong in assuming Napoleon wouldn’t ever apologize for his behavior. He’s never been very fond of apologies no matter what side of them he’s on, and in many cases it’s just easier to put the matter to rest unless absolutely necessary. It’s the way Ilya said it that gets him. Matter of fact. Casual. Like there’s no way his words could have hurt Napoleon’s feelings because...well. Because Napoleon doesn’t have feelings to hurt. That’s what he goes to great lengths to pretend, at any rate.

Funny how Ilya has a knack for making it sound like a bad idea.

Napoleon grits his teeth through another awkward silence—clearly, Ilya didn’t expect that remark either—and then, because there’s no way he’ll make the situation any less awkward in the next five minutes, he accepts Ilya’s mumbled excuses about something to do somewhere else in the station and floats aide to let him leave withough protest.

  
  


  
  


Over the next few weeks, Napoleon finds himself making a point of showing a little more of himself around his colleagues. There is a certain practicality to it: he may be good at keeping his emotions under a tight leash, but even he can’t maintain that kind of facade twenty-four seven. The exercise is far too exhausting, for a start, but it’s more than that.

The key to not showing weakness is emotional distance, Napoleon has always known that. he’s always been willing to pay that price before, too—but there’s something about spending over a months with two people you like well enough and realizing they don’t know anything about you that makes him feel a little too much like the Tin Man in the  _Wizard of Oz_ . It’s much easier to realize your chest is hollow when there’s no more background noise to absorb the echo after all and, to his surprise, Napoleon finds he doesn’t like the sound...so he changes.

  
  


He doesn’t smile more, but he tries not to spend so much time wondering if it’s too wide or too narrow for the circumstances. He laughs more too, which is easy because in the weeks after he apologizes to him, Ilya reveals a dry sense of humor that keeps putting Napoleon in stitches. On one occasion, he even snorts in laughter.

It’s not all cotton candy, of course: with less practice, his control slips a little more often, including when he’d rather it didn’t. He’s a little grumpier in the mornings, a little drier when he’s tired. When the second month comes around and his body decides it’s no fun having an oestrogen-filled buddy around without syncing up with her, Napoleon gets moody enough that even Gaby picks up on it, though she doesn’t know why. These are the things Napoleon could have done without.

Still, as time goes by, Gaby’s smartass comments lose their snappy quality to turn into something friendlier and Ilya...Ilya turns out to have the kind of laugh Napoleon can’t help but want to hear again. And if this whole being more open—both towards his colleagues but also, he realizes about a month into the exercise, towards himself—means Ilya feels like handing his own smiles a little more freely, well. That’s all the more incentive to keep going.

*

They get pseudo-champagne for the halfway point of their mission. it’s the kind of carbonated drink you give kids who want to play at being at a cocktail party when you want to indulge their curiosity for champagne while remaining a decent parent, which means Napoleon has never had it before and doesn’t have enough time to properly reign his disgusted expression in.

  
  


“It’s horrible, I know,” Gaby says, smacking her lips around the taste while Ilya’s nose wrinkles, “and the foil pouch makes it worse.”

  
  


She sips on her drink some more, pulling about a quarter of it in one go if Napoleon had to guess, and then she sighs:

  
  


“I wish this were real champagne. Or cider. Something with actual alcohol in it.”

“You wish every drink was alcohol,” Ilya says around the straw of his own pouch. He’s had enough practice by now to catch Gaby’s wrist in time to turn her slap into a gentle shove and, without missing a beat, twist around to throw a finger in Napoleon’s face. “And don’t try to defend her. You are just as bad as her.”

“You wound me, Tovarish,” Naopleon protests with his free hand on his chest, “I though you and I were friends by now.”

  
  


“We are,” Ilya retorts with a click of his tongue and a roll of his eyes. “And friends tell each other when they are full of—” Ilya pauses and frowns, clearly wrestling with english for a few seconds before he gives up, pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, and sighs: “What’s the word?”

“Poop,” Napoleon replies, just innocent enough to for Gaby glare at him for his choice of word. Napoleon ignores her, however, and instead he asks Ilya: “Is the juice getting to you head then, Tovarish?”

“Not everyone is alcoholic like you,” Ilya says without missing a beat. “Oh, shut up,” he adds when he notices Napoleon’s grin. “Is not what I mean.”

“It is what you said, though,” Napoleon answers as he floats a little closer to his Russian friend. “And rest assured I’m not going to let you forget it.”

“Can’t you go flirt with Gaby?” Ilya asks, exasperated.

  
  


Ilya doesn’t change color until after Gaby bursts out laughing, but when he does the transformation is both spectacular and impressively fast—though the fact that Ilya choked on his apple juice probably plays a role in that. Still, even as he pats the man’s back to help him settle down, Napoleon can’t help but grin.

  
  


“I’m sorry, Tovarish, but I’m afraid you are by far my favorite.”

  
  


Gaby, despite having been all but forgotten for the past few minutes, is kind enough to only  _mouth_ ‘now who’s turning red?’ at him. Napoleon, fully aware she’s probably understating his own predicament, grins and bare the dig with all the good grace he can muster.

*

When Napoleon enters the observation module two weeks later, he’s surprised to find the fairy lights they’d all requested for Christmas strung around its surface and glinting with the same bright white as the star outside the window. From the speakers floating close to Ilya’s laptop, Napoleon recognize that one track from _Wall-E_ when the two robots are dancing in space, and he feels the heat climb up the back of his neck before he’s even finished turning to Ilya with a questioning look on his face.

  
  


“You move too slow,” Ilya mutters, face red, while looking anywhere but at Napoleon’s eyes. “Is time to go beyond flirting by now, Cowboy. You could use pointers.”

  
  


Napoleon blinks.

  
  


“So you’ve decided to take me on a date to teach me a lesson?” He asks, and feels rewarded when Ilya’s blush deepens and he has to hide behind the pale gold of his hair under the fairy lights.

“More like the other way around,” Ilya admits—not quite a mumble, but close enough to make Napoleon grin.

“Oh, good,” he says, forcing himself to remain somewhat composed even through the blush burning at his cheeks, “I like that version a lot better.”

  
  


Ilya rolls his eyes, but he does smile at Napoleon. The sight brings something bubbly and warm to life in Napoleon’s chest, and that warmth makes it easier for Napoleon to let his grin spread wider than he normally would, even for Ilya. Then Ilya’s expression opens up too, his eyes twinling in the changing lights, and for a moment it feels like they’ve been caught in an upward spiral of nervous happiness, both of their face growing pinker and happier by the second. It lasts until the track changes, and Ilya blinks like he just remembered something important.

  
  


“Oh right, I—” Ilya bangs his hand against the wall in his haste to reach the laptop, and curse in Russian under his breath even as he sets his playlist back to the _Wall-E_ song. He turns back to Napoleon then, an almost serious look on his face, and says: “Our options are a little limited here, but I was thinking we might—”

“Dance?” Napoleon asks as innocently as he can.

  
  


Ilya blushes, of course, when he realizes Napoleon knows exactly how much of a dork he is, but he still extends his hand in invitation and, well. It’s not like there was ever a chance of Napoleon saying no, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and reviews make me want to keep writing <3


End file.
